Clanless
by jarec
Summary: The struggle of a newly embraced Citiff to find a place in Cainite society


Authors note: this is going to be a long one, kiddies. We've all heard stories about the great partso fbeing Undead. The disciplines, the immortality, and most of all the power. The knowledge that you are part of a race that's been running the world since the dawn of civilization.

Unless of course, you're one of the Clanless. Despised, sneered at, and used as scapegoats, the Caitiff are the lowest of the low in Kindred society. No one will speak for them, no one has to teach them, and most Princes will destroy them on sight.

On the otherhand, they have no clan to answer to, they can learn any discipline, and don't have to worry about the Clan's curse. Being caitiff means you experience at once the highs and lows of Cainite existence.

What must that be like? Let's find out.

BOOK ONE: CAITIFF

Cold. Not cold.

Cold. Not cold.

These were the sensations that Reggie Parker awoke to, the feelings that caused his eyes to open again. A strange chill, running through his entire body, running through his VEINS. Not surprising, really, considering he was lying in a snow bank with most of his clothes ripped to shreds. At the same time, however, he felt… not cold. Not warm, but not cold. It was as though the physical chill of the snow wasn't affecting him. As though his frigid feeling was something…internal.

Logically he knew this was impossible. Either he was not cold, in which case his body had somehow been damaged to the point where he had no sensation, or he was cold, in which case he would soon freeze to death. Logically, he was probably dying. Logic, however, seemed to be on holiday, because he felt good, strong. Also cold. And not-cold.

He lay there, puzzling over the sensation for a time. Then it occurred to him to wonder how he'd gotten into the snow bank and what had happened to his clothes. It is a testament to the human ability to agonize over trivia that Reggie was far more concerned with his clothing.

'_My shoes! $80! That shirt, $35! And my new suede jacket! Where the HELL is my jacket! Oh shit, Linda gave it to me just last week! If I've lost that I'm dead!_' (Later on Reg would be struck by the incredible irony of that last thought)

Okay, Reg, calm down, there's prpbably a perfectly reasonable explanation of why you're lying in a snow bank, your clothes torn apart, and yet not feeling the cold. But first things first, figure out where you are.

Reg turned his head to one side, so he could read a street sign. Normally this was no great feat, yet his body resisted him. It was as though his body was surprised that he could still move, and didn't really believe it. However, once it was proven that he could, in fact move, he began to look for street signs. There was one at the corner, but his angle was such that he couldn't read one of the signs. He was apparently,on a street that intersected Tomasson Boulevard at some point. Not much help, espescially since he was new to the city.

'_Crap.Okay, stay cool. Think. What happpened to you? You were walking home from the set..,'_

Reg was a stuntman by profession. Since he acked what most people referred to as 'rugged good looks', and thus couldn't double for the big stars, he was generally relegated to working in straight-to-video action flicks. He was pretty happy with that, too. After all, such films usually used the same stunts over and over again. It made things a lot easier, espescially compared to the big time stuntmen, who never knew what they might be called on to do. Plus, he was ex – Delta Force (medical discharge- chronic insomnia- a serious concern in the crack anti-terror unit which was suppposed to be constantly alert), which meant he was in good shape, knew a few martial arts, and could handle a weapon perfectly. For these reasons, he was the most sought after stuntman in his range, the 'best of the mediocre' he liked to say.

Right now, he was working on a new flick called 'Lawman II'. The pay was good, and tis one actually had a decent plot. He was thinking seriously about renting it when it was finished, something he almost never did. Filming had just started, and so he was stilll unused to his new city. Like most stuntmen in his pricerange, Reg had no fixed address; he usually rented a room in whatever city he was working in as close to the set as he could be. This usually worked well, and he enjoyed traveling. Although it DID seem a bit inconvenient just now.

'OK, left the studio and began the walk home. Then…' 

Images flashed into his mind. A voice behind him, calling out. Howling.

Running down thhe icy streets, fueled by terror with…something…hot on his heels. Howling. Laughing. Mocking.

A wrong turn. A dead end. Scrambling over the fence, his pursuers breath hot on his neck.

A struggle. His helplessness, as his enemy shrugged off blows that would have crippled or killed a normal assailant. Laughing at his efforts. Then drawing him close, and then…

And then… nothing. No images at all, but a feeling of violation. As though he'd been irredeemably dirtied.

Reg lay there for a while, trying to force his brain to tell him what had happened. But nothing came, no matter how hard he tried. '_Whatever happened to me must have been REALLY bad_' he thought. He remembered something from his OCS psychology class, about how the brain, when confronted by memories so horrible it couldn't deal with them, would just block them out. Pretend they'd never happened in order to keep on functioning. He guessed that's what was going on here.

What on earth could it have been?

'_Huh. Maybe if its that bad, I shouldn't focus on it just now. Maybe I'll just focus on getting up.'_

Reg stood up, and almost immediately heard something that changed his world forever.

'Told ya he'd make it. That's fifty bucks you owe me, Trig."

"Fuck you, Bird-boy, at least I HAVE fifty bucks. C'mon, let's help 'im up."

End Chapter 1


End file.
